


Come All You Young Lads, and Lay Me Down

by laudatenium



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Voyeurism, aurthor is a sad depressing sad sack, but they don't know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudatenium/pseuds/laudatenium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't easy, feeling like this for someone he was barely friends with.</p><p>But it wasn't like life had ever been kind to him.</p><p>----</p><p>I did the AoU bed sharing thing, but with way too much angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come All You Young Lads, and Lay Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Carrickfergus”, a traditional Irish ballad.
> 
> Welp, I made an angsty bed sharing. Sue me.

It would be safe to say that Tony Stark could lay claim some of the most colorful experiences possible.  Champagne and cocaine laced parties that turned into orgies, rooms filled with the glitter and grace of Western society, any locale or person was accessible to him.  Even since the shift from the bubble-like cocoon that has been so rudely popped but had allowed him to become Iron Man, and the subsequent transition into a responsible “role model” (or so Pepper had said), he’d only floated between harsh austerity and lush excess.  The middle ground was something completely foreign, and completely boring in his eyes.

 

But the normalcy of standing next to an eight-months-pregnant woman as she rummaged in her tiny linen closet was something very new.

 

Laura nearly had a fit over the assumption that anyone would be sleeping on an armchair or out on the collapsible cots in the Quinjet (or the hayloft as Clint suggested), and the idea they would not take advantage of her very generous hospitality.  The place had six bedrooms: one for the happy couple, one for Boy Child, one for Girl Child, one that was being painted for incoming Baby Barton 3.0, which left two guest rooms and a pull-out couch in the living room.  Fury had snapped up the pull-out, and as Laura was engineering Bruce and Nat into a bed together (obviously her knowledge of the team didn’t extend to knowing that sex would lead to the Big Guy making his presence known), that left Tony to share the smaller bedroom with Steve.  Lest he incur the wrath of the otherwise perfectly nice lady.

 

“Just go with it,” Clint had mouthed over the top of the son’s head as he showed him the A+ spelling tests he has missed.

 

Hospitality must be something all normal people had learned at a very young age, Tony theorized as he tried to keep Laura in his sight over the mountain of sheets, pillows, blankets, and comforters she had  shoved in his arms.  (“The second guest room gets a bit drafty in the mornings, especially this time of year,” she’d apologized while stuffing them full of homemade food that Tony would swear that he could taste the love in.)  He remembered visiting Rhodey’s house for Thanksgiving after his parents had been killed, and being shocked by the difference in atmosphere.  Roberta had fussed over him and forced him to take forth helpings at dinner.  She’s lovingly made up the room next to Rhodey’s with knitted afghans and hand sewn quilts.

 

For some reason the whole visit had left a lump in his throat. 

 

Every year after that, Rhodey had extended Roberta’s invitation back, and without fail, Tony would decline.  Her diabetes got the best of her a couple of years before Tony’s captivity, and while he didn’t go to the funeral, he sent so many flowers that Rhodey later complained that his sense of smell was broken.

 

So standing here in Barton’s completely middle class farmhouse was something far out of Tony’s depth.  For him, hospitality was something you paid others to give to your guests.  Even if you did get personally involved, it would be more of a situation where you found the guest’s preferences and sent them to the staff catering to their needs.  It was nice, if impersonal, and everyone went away smiling.

 

But it was almost visceral to be standing there getting the full force of hospitality straight to the face.  Especially when he was the one on the receiving end.

 

“Well, they won’t match, but hopefully you can ignore that?” Laura piped up.  Tony shifted the pile enough to allow her to lay the slightly scratchy towels on top.  “They’re not the quality you’re used to, I’m afraid.  None of it is.  But is should suffice for a couple of days, yeah?”

 

“Thank you.”  And he was surprised by how genuine he sounded.  “I’m used to the finer things, but I’m not _that_ spoiled.”

 

“Yes, I’ve learned to take Clint’s stories with a grain of salt.  You don’t regularly set Men’s Warehouse suits on fire to make a point, do you?”

 

“It was _once_.  But, honestly, thanks for putting us up,” Tony said awkwardly.  “You didn’t get much notice before we kinda just fell into your lap. . . .”

 

Laura laughed, a clear and bright sound, and Tony was struck for a moment with understanding as to why Barton would keep up this little charade.  Beneath her worn veneer, she was naturally very beautiful.  He wondered if it was because of the life she led and the stress of having a husband who was always off risking his life while she held down the fort, or if it was because he wasn’t used to seeing women who were allowed to age normally without the aid of fifty million creams and injections.  “Oh, don’t worry about it.  It’s no trouble.  Clint’s shown up in far worse straights.  It’s rare when he shows up and _isn’t_ bleeding.”

 

The idea of someone waiting at home left a metallic taste in his mouth.

 

The lavender door at the end of the hall opened.  “Sweetheart?”  It was odd to hear the term of endearment in Barton’s normally gruff voice.  “I can’t find the Monster Spray.”

 

“‘Monster Spray’?” Tony was about to start snorting when Girl Child appeared at Barton’s hip, pouting.  “ _Ehm_ , uh, what’s . . . Monster Spray?”

 

“It keeps bad things away,” the girl told him confidently. 

 

“Like . . . monsters?”

 

She looked at him like he was an idiot.  “ _No_.  Only babies believe in monsters.”  She looked at Clint.  “Daddy, doesn’t the news say he’s a genius?”

 

“So they think.  He hasn’t proven it yet,” Barton supplied, and the girl smiled victoriously.  “Stark, can’t you figure out that it keeps out the bad guys when you spray it on the doors and windows?”

 

“Not when your nomenclature is bullsh-“

 

“Okay!”  Laura clapped her hands together.  “Sweetie, we ran out last night, remember?  I’ve gotta make some more.”

 

The girl considered it.  “Does that mean I get another story?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“A Look and Find?”

 

“Of course, darling.”

 

“An _Eye Spy?_ ”  She looked about ready to blast off into the stratosphere in her excitement.

 

Laura nodded, and Clint groaned as his daughter cheered and raced back into her room.

 

“Really, honey?  I’m _terrible_ at those.”

 

“Bond with your daughter.  I’ll be back up soon.”  She patted Tony’s still overloaded arm once before blowing Clint a kiss and slipping down the stairs.

 

“So.”  Tony cleared his throat.  “The Amazing Hawkeye is bad at finding things in hidden pictures?”

 

“Shut up.”  Barton probably meant it as a bark, but it came out like a whine.  “In the field, I’m the best at seeing things, because people hide in logical places.  It’s predictable.  Those books,” he shivered, “have no rhyme or reason to them.  ‘Oh hey, let’s put the safety pin in the public fountain.  Let’s put the dime in the crevice where no one would ever think to look.’  It’s _psychotic_.  But she loves them, so I do them.”  He looked ready for a fight.

 

“Hey, man, she’s your kid.  I have zero know-how on dealing with those tiny demons.  But if you think that’s what she needs from you as a dad,” he shrugged, making the tower teeter dangerously, “it’s not a bad thing that you’re trying to be a good dad.”

 

Barton leaned against the doorjamb with his hands in his pockets and raised an eyebrow.  “And _you’re_ saying this, Stark?”

 

“I’ve had my fair share of crappy dads.”

 

“Haven’t we all.”  Clint turned to re-enter the purple and pink paradise.

 

“Just one more thing.”

 

Clint sighed heavily.  “What?”

 

“What’s in Monster Spray?”

 

“Water, vinegar, and a few drops of food coloring.”  He shrugged of Tony’s look of incredulity.  “Say what you will, she eats it up.  It also does double duty by killing ant trails in the summer.”

 

“You’re making her do pest control.   Diabolical.”

 

“Sure.  Go have fun with our beloved Captain.  Oh, and if you get cum on the sheets, _you’re_ explain that to the missus.”

 

He closed the door with a snap.

 

 

 

“Delivery,” Tony announced, muffled by the wall of cloth as he finally navigated his way into the second guest room.  He heard a deep, warm chuckle and the weight left his arms.

 

Steve deftly carried the pile over to the bed and laid it down, sorting towels and pillow cases and sheets into their respective piles.  “Well, we’re not going cold tonight.  Did the kids finish their baths?”

 

“The girl did.”

 

“Lila.”  Steve was glaring intently at the fitted sheet, thick brows wrinkled.  Tony was suddenly vividly remembered of their arrival, how Steve had stared at the Mini Batons in something close to disbelief.  He’d been so angry after, and of course Tony thought he was mad at him.  But thinking back on it, there was some sort of desperate loneliness in Steve’s eyes as he observed the Family Barton.  He had spent the afternoon staring at them moodily, and lashing out whenever anyone had approached him.  But when Tony brought Fury up to the house, Steve had been sitting on the floor, up to his elbows in poster paint and markers, being grilled by the boy while he traded pictures with the girl.  A wrinkled pile of sloppy drawings rested innocently on the bureau.

 

Well, maybe the whole “home” thing hadn’t been one of the best things to throw in Steve’s face.

 

Tony always had difficulty connecting people he knew with having kids.  Vary rarely were kids taken into his world, aside from the Make-A-Wish children and those that approached him.  Offers had been made for the Avengers to appear at elementary schools, but people had protested a “self-appointed squad of egotistical freaks” influencing children.  The PR reps always responded with a soft “no”, giving some bullshit about potential attacks and safety.  So, the team was beloved by children but was not allowed near them very often.  But still, the mails bags came loaded with crayon drawings and badly-executed letters.

 

It wasn’t that Tony didn’t _like_ kids in a vague, idealistic way, but he never even entertained the idea of having any.  The board had dropped the topic of an heir very quickly, remembering that Tony’s own fucked-up existence was due to their predecessors demanding Howard produce an heir.  His succession plan was finding some young, underprivileged genius, promoting them and training them up as his eventual successor.

 

So, no kids to carry on the Stark name.  It was fine.  Really.

 

But the rest of the team was different.  Barton was always the one headed off to evacuate the children, but now it was understandable why.  Nat had a soft spot that children exploited with a vengeance.  Thor talked about “sewing his future seed” and was in no rush, but of any of them, Thor seemed the most likely candidate to become a dad.  Bruce wanted them, Tony was fairly certain, but didn’t want to put them at risk.  He’d had Tony refuse a meeting petitioned by one Dr. Ross on his behalf.  Tony had looked her up.  He supposed he understood Bruce’s worry.

 

Steve was probably the worst.  He was the most parent-approved Avenger, and Tony was often shocked by the soft look that appeared on his face when little kids approached him.  He always knelt down, got on their level, and chatted politely.  He saved every drawing they gave him.

 

It was sad, because Steve would make a great dad.  But like Bruce, there were genetic concerns, and an adoption agency wasn’t likely to approve a single guy who was constantly jetting all over the world to punch people in the face.

 

Unbidden into his mind was a image of Steve, in a soft thin hoodie and flannel pants standing in an empty kitchen at 3 A.M., holding a bottle to a tiny infant that he cradled to his broad chest, crooning some old Irish song about Carrickfergus and Ballygrant and the sea being too wide to cross.  Steve would look up, and smile at Tony with soft eyes –

 

No.  Not Tony.

 

“You should probably shower, then,” Steve was saying, sounding very far away.  “We got the guest room without a bathroom-“

 

“ _En suite_ ,” Tony muttered distractedly.

 

“So, we’re sharing with the kids,” Steve ignored him.  “Laura said be careful of leaving hair in the drain or on the sink.  But I think that was targeted at you.”

 

“I don’t think my _beard_ is the highest on my list of priorities right now,” Tony muttered, walking over and snatching up one of the sets of burgundy towels.

 

“Who knows with you?” Steve smiled crookedly, but there was a tenseness in the lines of his smile.  Then Tony noticed the bed.

 

“What is this, a twin?”

 

“It’s a full.”

 

“And we’re two grown men,” he complained, because he did _not_ need to be pressed against Steve in the night.  There was too much temptation already in his daily life, and Tony was certain Steve would snap his neck if he got too close.

 

“Maybe you could worry about something else instead of _your_ comfort?” Steve snapped.  “Like, I don’t know, maybe the fact that something _you_ made is trying to _exterminate_ humanity?”

 

“Listen here, bub – “

 

“ _No._   Stop making excuses for yourself.  It’s not your fault that Ultron went the way he did, but you were the one messing around with playing god.  It’s done.  You can’t change the past.  But you could fucking _help_ with this mess you helped create instead of fighting me at every turn.”

 

“You know what?” 

 

But suddenly Steve’s fierce blue eyes were helpless, breathing harsh. 

 

 _“You could have saved us.”_  

 

“Forget it.”  He grabbed his emergency bag and kicked open the door.

 

 

 

Never let it be said that Tony let himself get caught up in emotion.

 

The interior was different from the exterior, so maybe three people knew that Tony’s blasé exterior was hiding a needy and overly affectionate interior.  Parts of it still bled out and slipped out through the cracks of his emotional armor, but throwing money at people he liked could be excused as eccentricism, and everything else as manic-depressive tendencies.   He was both, so it wasn’t too much of a lie.

 

So while his insides were bubbling and boiling and burning, he remained cooler than a freezer pop, only hoping he didn’t melt.

 

So yes, he was mentally planning three college funds and an extension to the farmhouse.  And new plumbing, as he took in the claw foot tub from before him.

 

The shabby fabric of the room was covered by the brightly colored things that went along with children.  Two towels, one fuchsia with appliqué flowers, the other hunter green with helicopters.  Tiny training toothbrushes were on the sink next to Avengers™ kiddie toothpaste.

 

Well, Tony mused as he picked up the tube, at least the kids had taste.  That or Barton had found a better sense of humor.

 

He took his time, shaving and brushing his teeth and flossing in the spotted mirror on the medicine cabinet, in no rush to get into bed with a huffy Steve.  Maybe if Steve were a bit more eager.

 

It was telling of how far gone he was, that he was still excited in some animal part of his brain to be in such close proximity to the object of his misplaced affections even when they were yelling at each other.

 

Tony couldn’t help it.  Steve was so different from him in so many ways, but Tony was sure that if they got past the huffing and the yelling, they would fit together seamlessly, filling one another’s negative space until they were a single cohesive unit.

 

He dug the packets of shampoo and bodywash out of the emergency bag (every member of the team had one, filled with toiletries and clothes that were stored next to the emergency rations in the Quinjet), and after setting them on the ledge of the bath tub, turned to undress while the water heated up.

 

He kicked off his boots and socks, toes smarting at the still-damp floor from the kids’ baths.  The rest of his clothes followed, making a tiny pile in the only dry patch of floor, right behind the door.

 

Right as he was turning back to the now hot water and pulling the thing up from the faucet so the showerhead activated, he allowed a hand to ghost over the mass of scar tissue on his chest.  The false hope that his health issues would be over when they took the shrapnel and reactor out was gone.  Going into his final artificial skin graft, the doctors had asked to put him through a series of tests to make sure everything was good to go.

 

It wasn’t.  All the stresses and surgeries in the area had weakened the heart muscle.  The reactor, for all the weight in his chest, had acted as a sort of pacemaker.  Now they were keeping a close watch on both heart and liver, and debating having him get a conventional pacemaker implanted.  Tony had drawn up blueprints and made a prototype for an arc reactor-powered implant that would act as a pacemaker, defibrillator, and artificial heart pump.  He was just waiting for some time off to have it put in.

 

He didn’t need to tell anyone that he often found it difficult to breathe now that there was nothing making it difficult.

 

Once the water was steaming, Tony stepped into the tub and pulled the polka-dot shower curtain closed.  Almost immediately, he let out a string of swears as his knee sent a mound of bath toys balanced precariously on the sides cascading onto his feet.  He bent over, swearing as he tried to haphazardly put them back into their places.  He got a face full of cold water when he tried picking up a squeaky shark and found it squirted water.

 

He was careful about the toys after that.

 

As far as he knew, he was the last to shower, so he could use as much hot water as he pleased.  He relished it, lethargically massaging industrial soap into his skin and generic shampoo into his hair.  It wasn’t certain when he’d have a chance to bathe and sleep after they left the Barton Farm, so he wasn’t going to hurry it.

 

After he finished with the active cleaning, he just stood there, pondering.

 

He still missed Pepper, but the pain from that was dulling as it was replaced by longing for a certain someone else.  He hid behind “She’s away for business” and hoped no one noticed they hadn’t seen her in six months.

 

Bruce had told him a few weeks ago that he’d been alone for too long.  He’d snapped back that Bruce wasn’t one to talk.

 

It didn’t help that Steve was single too.  For a while after they had moved in, Natasha had been quite determinedly trying to get Steve out on a date (with Peggy’s _niece_ of all people), but she’d eventually stopped.  Ostentatiously because he didn’t want to any hot gossip, Tony had approached her to see why, or if Cap had taken up with someone behind his back.

 

Not behind his back.  Steve didn’t owe him updates on his love life.

 

Natasha was, as always, unreadable as she assessed him.

 

“He has his heart on someone already.”

 

“And they’re not tripping over themselves to get with him?”

 

The Russian’s eyes glittered with too much knowledge.  “They don’t know it’s mutual.  Anyway, they’re just becoming more than acquaintances.  If they started anything now, it probably wouldn’t end very well.”

 

“Who is she?” he had whined.

 

“If you can’t figure out who _he_ is, you don’t deserve to know.”

 

“Is it his bird guy?”

 

“Sam?  No.”

 

“Bucky?”

 

“ _Goodbye_ , Stark.”  And she’d closed the door he’d paid for in his face.

 

It was difficult, because it was only very recently that Tony could honestly say Steve was his friend.  It was still very fragile, and they still argued at every turn.  To already feel the way he did when there was only the slightest formation of affection between them was agonizing, but he had felt things were progressing well.

 

Until, of course, Tony went behind everyone’s back and built a robot that was trying to destroy humanity, even if he hadn't programmed it to do anything of the sort.  That was sure to put a damper on any attempts at romance and put them back weeks in terms of relationship development.

 

Which was terrible, really, because if it was anyone else they’d have already been rolling around in the unmade together.  But Steve was possibly one of the least-easy people he’d ever wanted to bed.  So might as well get what he could out of his system.

 

He was already half hard when he skimmed down his abs and took himself in hand.  He kept it harsh, quick.  Purely physical.  Pull pull twist.  Maybe a caress or two.  It served no purpose thinking of anyone.  Stress relief, nothing more.

 

But it wasn’t enough.

 

 _Aww, hell_.  He was headed there anyway.

 

Steve was there.  Manhandling him around, so supersoldier shoulders blocked the spray from Tony’s face as he bent down to kiss him, sucking on his tongue.

 

“ _Can I help you with something?”_ he teased, and after hearing Tony’s whine, brought his hand down, wrapping a slightly-rough palm around him.  Stroked firmly, just to the side of too hard.  “ _Mmm, that’s certainly something.”_

 

“Steve,” he croaked, feeling it build.  He’d gone too long without this.  Not that stamina would benefit him here.

 

 _“Yes, Tony?”_   Steve would look at him with hooded eyes, water droplets clinging to his lashes.  _“Is there something you’d like?”_   He’d be trying not to laugh, but would be relentless in his pace.

 

“Steeeve.”

 

 _“Can you keep a secret?”_   Steve would bend down and press is lips to Tony’s ear.  _“Promise you won’t tell?”_

 

“Just –“  he squeezed his eyes together  “God, Steve.”

 

 _“Love you,”_ and the words would vibrate along his spine.  _“Tony, just – love you so much.”_

 

He came with a silent cry, and came down harshly in the rapidly cooling water.

 

So, that was out of his system.  Now he wouldn’t have to worry about rutting against Steve in the night, just cuddling up to his warmth.

 

Or cupping his face and listening to his breathing to convince himself that Steve was still alive.

 

The water was steadily headed for chilly, so he decided to get out before he caught hypothermia.

 

 

 

Steve was already in bed with the lights out by the time Tony stumbled back into the room.

 

The master strategist had figure the sleeping arrangement out: blanket cocoons beneath shared comforters.  Tony wasn’t going to complain.  Steve was like a furnace, so body heat would bleed over anyway.

 

It did feel a bit shameful to crawl into bed with the man he had just come from thinking about, but it wasn’t as though he could explain the awkwardness.  _“Yeah, sorry Steve, just fished masturbating to your delectable image, and came when fantasy you said you loved me.”_   Not very likely.

 

He dumped his bag at the foot of the bed and crawled into his cocoon, suddenly assaulted by a sharp, slightly spicy scent.  It made him want to scrunch up his nose, but also made him feel . . . safe.

 

Must be what Steve smelled like.  It was going to be a long night.

 

“Tony?”

 

Suddenly feeling exhausted, he retorted with a brisk “What?”

 

“Listen, Tony.  I’m – I’m sorry I snapped at you.  You didn’t deserve it.  It’s just – I don’t have much.  The world’s really one of the few constants in my life and I – “

 

“Shhh, overdosing on the sap, Cap.  We’re all running on emotion right now.  Don’t worry about it.”

 

Steve had sacrificed everything for the good of humanity.  People often diluted it to “his country”, but Steve wouldn’t demand to see proof of citizenship before he saved someone’s life.  An American wasn’t worth more in Steve’s eyes.  All life was equally precious.  You could probably claim a lot of people thought that way, but believed it to the fullest extent?  Just one of the many ways everyone paled in the shadow of Steve Rogers.

 

“You’re one of my constants, too.  For what it’s worth.”

 

Pain like an iron brand seared through his mind.  Some part of him wanted to laugh manically: he was a constant in Steve’s life.  A larger part wanted to throw himself out the window.  “Earth and me, huh?  That’s not a very consistent life.”

 

A chuckle vibrated through the bed, and Tony allowed himself to smile into the darkness.  “Well, you’re consistent in your inconsistency.  How’s that?”

 

“Acceptable.  Now, it’s been a long day.  We could both use some unconsciousness, yeah?”

 

Steve shifted, and it felt like the anger between them had dissipated for the time being.  “When you’re right.  Night, Tony.”

 

“Don’t let the baby Bartons bite.”

 

Steve snickered.

 

But it was only temporary.  They’d be tearing each other’s throats out again soon enough.

 

Sometimes it was easier just being mad at him.

 

Turning over, Tony resigned himself to a sleepless night.  It was his last conscious thought.

 

 

 

He woke up warm.

 

Tony reveled in it for a moment.  Then decide to investigate why he was warm.

 

For of course, in sleep, he’d pressed himself against Steve.

 

He would probably regret it, hell he already did, but he stayed close, savoring the warmth and closeness of Steve that he’d never get awake.

 

Steve’s body twitched, shuddered.  He shuddered again, full bodied, tremors rattling the brass bedstead gently.  Tony closed his eyes and went still just as Steve awoke with a gasp.

 

The tiny “ _No_ ” scared Tony worse than the image of Steve burned and bloody and dying.

 

Steve sat up harshly, peeling blankets and sheets off this sweaty skin.  His breathing was heaving like a racehorse’s, chest presumably swelling and contracting to their extremes.  Tony stayed relatively still, kept his breathing even, knowing any comfort he tried to offer would not be welcome or appreciated.

 

Steadily, the tenseness left Steve, and Tony could picture the slumped shoulders and defeated look on the man’s face.  Steve took a shaky breath and the sheets shifted as though he had pulled his knees up to his chest.

 

Carefully, Tony let an eye silt open and snapped it close immediately.  Steve had his face pressed into his knees, broad shoulders trembling.  Tiny gasps that would have been sobs to a lesser man filled the room.

 

He didn’t know how much time passed before he felt Steve stretch out again, without the covers smothering him.

 

Something changed in the air, like Steve’s hand was hovering next to his face, and only by sheer force of will he kept himself still and heart rate down.

 

Steve seemed to be debating touching him, and Tony was torn between shoving the hand away and begging for Steve’s touch.  So he stayed as still as possible.

 

Gently, Steve’s hand slipped beneath Tony’s chin, and ever so lightly pressed two fingers to his jugular.

 

 _Ba-bump, ba-bump_ , Steve waited thirty seconds, taking Tony’s pulse before removing his hand, fingers trailing softly along the skin, and Tony wanted to whine at the loss.  He almost missed the shaky breath of relief that Steve let out.

 

So, Steve was using Tony to make sure he wasn’t the only one alive.  That would need to suffice.  Almost friend, teammate, and fellow alive-person.  He would make do.

 

He didn’t seem to be going back to sleep.  From what he could glean, Steve was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.  Tony would swear he could feel Steve drawing courage to himself.  He could sense the moment when Steve resigned himself to doing whatever he had been debating doing, and felt the bedclothes rustle again.

 

Tony decided another peek would suffice, and nearly choked on his tongue.  He kept his eyes open.  Steve sure as hell wouldn’t notice.

 

The rustle had been Steve’s sweatpants and boxers being pulled down over his already exceptionally hard cock. 

 

With a practiced hand, like those familiar with lonely nights and immense frustration, Steve had his erection cupped in his palm, slowly rubbing up and down the shaft, the forerunner to the game.

 

It was terrible, awful, a strict breech of any bond of friendship and decorum and Tony couldn’t look away. 

 

He had to know.  He’d never see this again.

 

Steve didn’t moan.  His breathing was harsh and ragged, controlled and stifled, only letting out the occasional tiny whimper that had Tony wanting to make Steve make those noises.  He didn’t know if Steve was naturally just that quiet or he was keeping it down because of the assumption that Tony was asleep and Steve didn’t want him awakened.

 

All for naught.  Tony wasn’t missing a second of this.

 

It was obvious that Steve wasn’t unfamiliar with to this.  As far as anyone knew, Steve had zero bedroom experience.  But Tony allowed himself to fantasize that Steve would give the _best_ handjobs.  Not that he would ever know.

 

Moving forward with the proceedings, clearly a practiced move, Steve deftly twisted two forefingers and thumb, teasing, swirling around the shaft, meeting at the tip, and pressing the thumb into the slit.

 

Steve let out a high-pitched pitiful whimper, sounding almost pained.  Like this wasn’t happy spank-bank material.  Tony wanted to reach over and help, but it would ruin everything.

 

Was Steve thinking about Peggy?  Still?  It was the most likely candidate.  She had been beautiful when she was younger.

 

With a silent groan, Steve brought his left hand up to his mouth, biting down hard on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.

 

 _“Oh-ee,”_ Steve grunted from between his fingers.  _“Oh-ee.”_

 

Not Peggy then.  Zoey?  But Nat had said Steve was after a guy.

 

Back bowing, Steve came, crying out as he unmercifully bit his palm, jerking himself hard and fast as white coated his abs.  It was hands-down the most arousing thing Tony had seen in his life, even with the obviously tortured look on Steve’s face.

 

Laying there, again trying to catch his breath, Steve lazily pulled a finger through the mess on his chest, and brought a finger up to taste.

 

Silently, Tony shook apart.  He had been so focused on Steve, he’d been unaware of his own erection.  It wasn’t a pleasurable orgasm.  He came down to Steve licking his fingers clean, removing the evidence, and pulling his shirt down on his newly-cleaned chest.

 

Tony closed his eyes again.

 

The covers moved, pulling up around Steve’s neck.  He shifted slightly, moving infeasibly closer to Tony, but stopping just short of touching.  A heated millimeter hovered between their blankets.

 

Tony stayed alert, listening intently as Steve’s breathing evened to sleep once more.  The stickiness would have to be dealt with in the morning.

 

Morning.  Tomorrow.  Things would be the same tomorrow.  Nothing had changed, not really.  Steve wouldn’t know of this, not anymore of than he knew of anything else Tony might have felt.

 

Tony decided he would savor this night, for what it was worth.  If he was lucky, maybe he wouldn’t need to sleep ever again.

 

The room might have been drafty, but from where Tony was, it was warm, if a bit stifling.

 

 

 

The Tower was cold now.

 

He wasn’t sure exactly what to do with it.  With the new team residing upstate, there really was no purpose for the illuminated “A” on the side of the building any more, or all the now-vacated rooms.

 

They would probably remodel once again.  Maybe third time’s a charm.

 

Sleep eluded him.  He was the master of strategic napping, but curling up in bed by himself was always the start of hours of tossing and turning, subconsciously thinking that if he moved around enough, maybe he’d find what he wanted hiding in the covers.

 

He sighed and swung his legs out of bed, hating himself but knowing what he needed now.

 

It was awful, to think that, with all his genius, he was still susceptible to not knowing what he needed until it was gone.

 

All the rooms had been personalized to an extent, but Tony now saw that is was just a comfort thing.  No one had really made the place home, not even him.  The cold glass and steel made for impressive views, but didn’t allow in any warmth.  Not that Tony could say he’d ever lived in a warm home.  The house growing up was stiff and formal, the boarding rooms bland and impersonal.  Even his adult homes, while lauded for their masterful architecture and über-modern furnishings, art, and layouts, were nothing if not crafted by someone else.  It made sense, now, why he’d never seen any of the team in their pajamas or leaving their bits of themselves on tables and chairs.

 

Maybe he felt more at home when he was alone in a big house.  Or maybe he didn’t know what a proper home was.

 

Steve’s room had been left immaculate.  No empty drawers gaping or trash left in the wastebasket.  It was like a hotel room, bed made, blinds drawn, and no trace of any human in habitation.

 

Tony slunk over to the bedside, debating with himself.  He snatched up one of the perfectly shaped pillows and pressed his nose into it.  There, underneath the detergent if he concentrated long enough, was a trace of slight spice and home.  Steve.

 

He pulled up the sheet and slid in, burrowing into a cocoon.  Stared out at the cold room, wondering where he had gone wrong, and where to go from here.

 

He had been wrong.  On the corkboard by the door, an assortment of colored pins had been stuck into the corner, pieces of construction paper still speared through and small bits of glitter clinging in the cracks of the wood.

 

Chasing the scent of Steve on the sheets, Tony fell asleep for the first time in a week.

**Author's Note:**

> And I will leave it up to Marvel if we get a happy ending.


End file.
